Silver Master

Chapter 31

DAVIS STUDIED THE ENTRANCE OF THE RUN-DOWN FLOP-house through the windshield of the Phantom.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

“We’ve been over it a dozen times.” Celinda unfastened her seat belt. “I’m involved in this thing. That means I’ve got a right to go in with you. Besides, after I read his psi waves, I might be able to give you some useful information.”

She had a point, he thought.

He got out of the car. Celinda opened her door and joined him on the cracked sidewalk. Trig had followed them in his own car. He eased his battered little Float into a vacant slot, climbed out, and walked across the narrow lane to meet them.

“His room is on the second floor at the back,” Trig said. “I’ll go around to the alley. That way if he slips out the window or down the fire escape, I’ll be able to grab him.”

“Right,” Davis said.

He took Celinda’s arm and steered her toward the apartment house entrance. The neighborhood was deep in the Old Quarter, only a block from the massive green wall. The Colonial-era buildings loomed darkly, blocking most of the sunlight. It was midmorning, so there was no visible glow coming from the Dead City, but you could feel the psi energy seeping up from underground.

By mutual agreement they had left Max and Araminta at the apartment along with the relic. Davis was fairly certain the artifact was safe with them. No human intruder could move as fast as the bunnies. If Araminta sensed a threat, she would most likely grab the device and run off with it.

Trig disappeared into the narrow passage that separated the apartment house from the building next to it.

The lock on the front door of the building looked as though it had been broken a long time ago. He opened the door and moved into the front hall, Celinda at his heels. The smell was a mix of rotten carpeting, garbage, and mildew.

“Whew.” Celinda wrinkled her nose. “Hard to believe anyone would actually pay rent to live here.”

“Probably better than sleeping in an alley.”

“Not by much.”

They climbed a sagging, creaking staircase and emerged in a narrow, unlit hallway. Number six was at the end of the corridor.

Davis knocked a couple of times. There was no response.

He tried the knob. The door was locked.

“Brinker,” he called. “Open up. We want to talk to you. This is Guild business.”

“Oh, that’s sure to make him come running,” Celinda mumbled.

“You’d be surprised how often it works.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem to be doing the trick this time,” Celinda observed. “I’ll bet he’s halfway out the window by now.”

“If he is, Trig will get him.”

He reached into his pocket and removed the locksmith’s tool that he had brought with him. He inserted it into the lock and rezzed it gently. It hummed briefly in his hand, trying various frequencies.

There was an audible click.

“Got it,” he said softly.

Celinda eyed the tool. “Is that thing legal?”

“It is if you’re a licensed and bonded locksmith.”

“That doesn’t quite answer my question.”

“I know.”

He opened the door. “Brinker?”

There was no answer. None was needed. The unmistakable miasma of death wafted out into the hallway.

Celinda took a step back. She looked at him with shocked eyes.

He moved into the shabby studio apartment. The body was on a cot, sprawled amid dirty sheets. There was no sign of physical injury, just the pale gray color of death. A number of prescription medicine bottles stood on the end table together with a syringe. Two of the bottles were empty.

Davis picked up one of the bottles and looked at the label. Ice gripped his insides.

“Psi-trauma meds,” he said. “They tried this stuff on me while I was in the hospital.”

“Looks like he OD’d,” Celinda said, following him slowly into the room. “How sad. I wonder if it was accidental or a suicide.”

“There’s a third possibility,” he said quietly.

She gave him a sharp, searching look. “Murder?”

“If this is our man, he was with someone else the night they searched your apartment. Mrs. Furnell said the second man spoke like a professor or a doctor, remember? He seemed to be the one in charge.”

Celinda shuddered. “Someone with a medical background would have known how to kill him with drugs. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Crossed my mind.”

“What’s the name of the doctor who provided that prescription?”

He checked the bottle again. “Looks like Brinker was being treated at a local street clinic.”

“Why would someone murder him?”

“Don’t know for sure, but I can think of a couple of possibilities offhand. Maybe he knew too much. He was being treated for psi trauma. Maybe he had become too unstable. Or maybe his employer didn’t need him anymore.” Davis touched the dead man’s arm. “I’m no medical examiner, but I don’t think he’s been dead very long. A few hours, maybe.”

He put down the bottle and crossed the small space to raise the window. Trig stood in the alley, looking up. Davis waved him upstairs.

It took only a few minutes to search the studio. By the time Trig walked through the door, Davis had checked the closet and gone through the drawers in the battered dresser.

“Damn,” Trig said, looking at the body with a glum expression. “Looks like we’re going to have to call Detective Martinez again. Got a feeling she’s going to be a mite put out about this.”

Davis closed the kitchen drawer and turned to contemplate the room. “Once she gets involved, things will get even more complicated. We need to find Brinker’s employer before the Cadence PD opens up another murder investigation.”

Celinda looked up from the stack of mail she was going through. She held a crisp-looking white envelope in one hand. “I don’t know if this is important, but it’s the only piece of mail here that isn’t addressed to current resident.”

Davis took the envelope from her. Another chill went through him when he saw the return address.

“What is it, boss?” Trig asked, frowning.

“A letter from the Glenfield Institute,” Davis said without inflection.

“Huh.” Trig made no further comment.

Celinda’s brows snapped together. “Why are you both looking as if that letter is a note from the City-State Tax Service?”

“The Glenfield Institute is where I ended up when I went into that extended coma I told you about,” Davis said. “It’s the private parapsych hospital where the Cadence Guild sends hunters who get burned.”

“I see.” Understanding lit her eyes. “Not a lot of happy memories, in that case.”

“No,” he said. He ripped open the envelope, pulled out the neatly folded sheet of business letterhead, and read the letter aloud.

Dear Mr. Brinker:

It has come to my attention that you missed your last three follow-up appointments at the Institute. Please call immediately to reschedule.

The signature was that of Harold J. Phillips, DPP.

“Phillips is the head of the Glenfield Institute,” Davis said. “I’ve had a couple of letters from him, myself, in the past few months. He didn’t like the fact that I checked myself out of the institute. Thinks I need follow-up care like Brinker, here.”

“Well, clearly you don’t,” Celinda said firmly. She glanced at the body on the bed. “But Brinker may have needed some.”

Davis looked at Trig. “Call Martinez. Fill her in on what happened here. Remind her this is still Guild business.”

“Sure,” Trig said. “But she isn’t going to like it.”

“I know. Once you’ve made the call to her, check with the director of the street clinic that issued these meds. Tell him the patient died and that the Guild wants to talk to the doctor who was treating Brinker.”

“Got it,” Trig said. “What are you going to do next?”

“Looks like I no longer have a choice,” Davis said. “Got to make that appointment at the Glenfield Institute.”